Latchkey
by petrichorpoetry
Summary: or, How Tim Drake Found A Family, Became A Photojournalist, Learned To Love Coffee, and Grew Up, not necessarily in that order. Tim Drake is thirteen, runs the famous BatWatch blog that has spiraled hilariously out of control, has absentee parents that suit his purposes just fine, is running the streets at night, and is doing absolutely peachy, thank you. The Batfam disagrees.
1. we're outside and free from all tethers

Tim is about to _die_, he's gonna die, and his camera will be broken, and his _neck _will be broken, and he won't have gotten the stupid blog post up in time to make tonight worth it, and it's all his own fault.

When Tim started the blog, he never in a million years had intended for it to turn into something like this. But one thing just led to another, and somewhere along the road Tim crossed a couple lines, and the world didn't end, and now. Now he's regretting just about every life choice he's made. Ever. How the hell did he convince himself running around Gotham at night was a reasonable idea? He took precautions, sure, but those only get one so far.

_Normal cities_, Tim complains regularly to Ives during their video calls, don't have _actual villains _running around who don't care about collateral damage. (Ives always laughs, and tells Tim he knows he loves it, really.)

_Please, God, _Tim thinks half-heartedly. _If I make it through tonight, I'll give up video games for a week. I'll stop the blog, someone else can take it over who's an Actual Adult or something, maybe I can blackmail Nightwing into doing it, I'm too young to die. _

All in all, tonight is shaping up to be a pretty normal Tuesday in what Tim's life has somehow become.

* * *

He's running across the edge of the rooftop at frankly breakneck speed, and—okay so this may not have been his greatest idea ever, but listen—it's not like he _planned_—

Tim catches and strangles the noise in his throat just in time to avoid shrieking as Killer Croc's head and shoulders crash over the edge of the next building over. Under Croc's claws, old concrete chunks have begun flying around in the air.

Tim hits the deck, flinging himself sideways off the roof ledge down onto the rough sandpapery surface a few feet below. Scrambles back into the nearest corner as fast as he can, clutching the camera like it's going to be his One Great Saving Weapon. Against a crocodile monster. Because that makes sense.

God, he hopes Killer Croc hasn't seen him in that moment. He's really not planning to be human lunch meat tonight, thanks. He's got a spelling test in the morning and if he misses it his grade is going to go down by six percent.

From the sounds drifting across the gap, Killer Croc is now definitely smashing up the other rooftop like it's made of toothpicks. Tim has no idea what's got him this riled up tonight, but he really hopes that Batman, or _anyone _really, comes soon and—

Wow, think of the devil and he appears, Tim supposes.

There's the ever-so-faint _chink-UNK _of a grapple sticking into place, and then a loud _THWUMP _of boots on hard flesh. Tim winces. He can only imagine how much of a jolt it must be to slam into something as hard and solid as Killer Croc at high speed. But at least Croc is distracted now, which means it's Tim's chance to move.

One hand on his camera, one hand shoving himself away from the sandpapery roof surface, Tim is up and scrambling in half a second. He ducks behind the air conditioning unit he'd been originally aiming for when he dove off the ledge. Safely tucked behind it for the moment, Tim lifted his camera to his eye and aimed-just so, there's an art to it, of course, he's gotta frame the shot at a pleasing angle, yeah, like that, he thinks. Time slows down around him, Tim breathing slowly, Killer Croc and Batman tangled in a flurry of swipes and dodges on the adjacent roof. They're weaving around each other, the bat symbol is flashing on the ever-present clouds overhead, and if Tim's memory is correct, Robin should be sweeping onto the scene in three, two...there.

Tim's finger snaps the button down, then releases. The shutter clicks, right as Croc lets out a particularly irritated sound that just. Ricochets around the whole area, and man, Tim did not miss Killer Croc, not one bit, Croc drives him almost as mad as Clayface does on the nights he's running loose around Gotham. If Tim has to scrub mud spatters off his boots one more time, he's going to sue for the cost of cleaning supplies and emotional damages. Or something. Can you sue a villain as a civilian? Maybe not the best idea, since he'd have to explain why he was close enough to the situation to actually get Clayface's mud on him. Tim files that topic away for later thought. Right now, he's got to snap a few more shots of the fight.

Batman and Robin make quick work of taking down Killer Croc after that. A well-timed distraction by Robin and a quick net shot, and Croc is tangled up enough that they're able to tranq him. They secure Croc to the roof a bit more tightly, then slip away to a nearby roof to watch from the shadows as the villain is carefully removed from the area.

By the time they leave the scene, Timothy Drake is long gone, vanished off into the city again like he was never on the rooftop at all.

* * *

The _BatWatch _blog has a fresh new post with some of the author's best action shots yet, and Agent A sits in the batcave with a thermos of tea, scrolling through his family's nightly adventures with a raised eyebrow. Then the Batmobile is roaring in and drifting into park with the theatrics that Batman loves, and A closes the window, turning to deal with whatever bruises, wounds, and joint pains his strange little family has accumulated this time.

Less than three miles away, Timothy Drake sleeps in his room with a still-open window. He's sprawled out across his bed still half in his nighttime gear. One boot clings to the foot dangling halfway off the mattress. Tim dreams about his parents coming home early for once, and finding him gone, off and running in the city, and jolts awake with fear for a moment. Then he rolls over and drifts off, and sleeps like the dead until his alarm goes off a few hours later and he's chucking it across the room.

* * *

As it turns out, Tim should have just slept in and not bothered to come to school after all, because _somebody _decided that today would be the perfect day to start trying to elementally attacking half the city, and Tim's school was now an icebox. Literally.

Thanks, Gotham.

_Another day, another villain, _Tim types in the text box. _Coming to you live from daytime Gotham, for once, I have a special update today! A Literal Warlock has been spotted in northern Gotham and has currently frozen at least three city blocks with solid ice, trapping hundreds of people inside buildings. _People like his classmates, who were currently mostly headed for the cafeteria, figuring being frozen in with food was better than just sitting in a classroom getting cold and pretending to study bond angles.

Tim pauses to blow on his hands, trying to warm up his fingers a little._ There are some scattered Twitter reports that he's also set a few places on fire while chanting in a language no one understands at the moment, and also that Batman has been spotted on a couple buildings now, but waiting on official confirmation for both of those facts before I'll list them for sure. _

_The ice, however, needs no official confirmation, seeing as I'm one of the ones currently stuck inside a giant ice cube. Will update more as things develop. _

Tim hits the post button and sighs. Shoving his notebook out of the way, he kicks his feet up on the desk and tips his head back over the cheap plastic chair. If he's stuck in here, might as well take the opportunity to catch up on some of his frankly outrageous sleep debt. It could be hours before emergency services manage to get a path through to the building's door, depending on how quickly the warlock is taken down and how much they skimped on the ice melt budget for this winter.

_Hurry up, Batman, _is Tim's last thought, before he starts to doze. The last thing he registers is a vague realization that there may be a reason he shouldn't be taking a nap right now, but then Tim's off and dreaming and the unease slips away like mist.

* * *

"Kid. Hey. You alive in there? Come on, wake up sleeping beauty. Last train to Clarksville, time to get outta here."

Tim cracks his eyes open at the hard rapping on his forehead. He squints, trying to get his crusty eyes to focus properly on the person in front of him, who has wild hair, a strong Gothamite lilt, and—is that Jason Todd?

"Hi. It's just me, Jason. You okay, kid?" That's his Robin voice. The one he uses with people who just nearly got hurt or mugged, kids who are lost.

"Buh," Tim says intelligently.

Jason frowns at him. "Are you even awake right now?"

"I—" Tim's voice picks the absolute _worst _times to crack, puberty is a nightmare and he can't wait till it's over—_"yes." _says Tim. He's a little cranky, now, because he's been caught off guard by...

Well.

Pretty much everything about the last several seconds, if he's being honest. And he _hates _being caught off guard.

Tim scrambles to sit up properly, returning Jason's frown. "What's going on?"

Jason takes a couple steps back, leaning against a neighboring desk. "The principal sent us upperclassmen to round all the stragglers up from bathrooms and classrooms, all that jazz. Fire department finally got a path cleared to the door, so we can all go home. You're the only one still in this half of the floor, apparently, and no offense dude but you're like. Half a humansicle right now. Did you call your parents to come get you?"

"They're in Egypt," Tim mutters, slinging his bag on. He's still shivering. "I'm fine. I'll just get warmed up properly once I'm home."

"That's rough, buddy."

Tim shrugs. "It's fine."

"We could drive you, if you want?"

"We?" Tim glances over as they file out of the classroom.

"Yeah," Jason says, jamming his hands in his hoodie. "Alfie and me. Alfred's our butler. He picks me up from school pretty much every day, unless I have a track meet."

"You don't even know me, though. I could be an axe murderer," Tim points out, reasonably.

Jason looks him up and down, a little pointedly. "I think I'll take my chances."

"You don't know where I live," Tim tries.

"'Course I do. You're Timmy Drake, right? You're literally next door. Well. As next door as mansions get. Fuck, they're huge. It's ridiculous."

"Language, Mr. Todd!" a teacher calls as they pass, and Jason waves a hand in acknowledgment but not apology. Tim and Jason squeeze out the front door and through the tunnel the fire department has managed to carve through the ice. Maybe flamethrowers, Tim thinks. However they did it, Tim's impressed-it only took them an hour or so, tops.

Then they're out, and Tim sees Starfire standing outside his school building, and—_"Oh." _

Jason laughs.

"Yeah," he says, clapping Tim on the shoulder. "You kind of missed the show. It was amazing, watching her through the ice."

"_Please _tell me people got it on their Snap stories," begs Tim, and he's too in awe of one of his favorite heroes ever standing there in the flesh to feel embarrassed.

"Fuck yeah we all did," says Jason cheerfully.

_"Language," _a distinctly British voice interjects, and then Tim is being grasped, and turned, and shoved directly towards a sharp-dressed man if he ever saw one.

"Tim, this is Alfred. Alfred, Tim. I said we could give him a ride home, since his house is right down the road from the Mannor. Is that okay?" Jason tilts his head a little sharply at the end as he asks this, like a bird. Like a robin. Tim furiously smashes down a nervous giggle. He can't believe this is his life right now.

"Quite," says Alfred. He holds out a gloved hand, politely shaking Tim's with a firm grip. "Hello, Master Timothy. It's a pleasure to see you again. You've grown a bit since the last time you were at one of Master Bruce's galas."

"Yes sir," Tim answers, because that's what adults expect you to say when they point out that you, a child, have in fact grown, as one does. "Are you sure it's not too much trouble to drive me home?"

"Not at all," says Alfred. He opens the back door of the shiny black car and Jason hops in. "It's right on our way. And even if it weren't, I couldn't in good conscience allow you to travel home by yourself after being stuck in that ice. It will ease my mind to know you make it there safely."

"Okay," sighs Tim. He's clearly not going to get out of a ride, so he tries to suck it up and put on a polite company smile as he slides in the backseat after Jason, and lets Alfred shut the door.

Jason Todd. Bruce Wayne's newest son. Who is also the current _Robin_. Which Tim is definitely not supposed to know about, but he _does _, and Starfire herself is literally twenty yards away and _taking off into the sky _because that's a thing she can do, and they're being driven away from his literally-an-ice-cube school in one of Batman's cars, as if any of this is remotely normal.

Except it kind of is, if you live in Gotham, and don't happen to _know _secret identities that you shouldn't. At this point, Tim doesn't really know if knowing makes things better or worse.

"So," Jason says next to him, flashing a grin. "What do you think about the all-school read they picked this year? I don't like it as much as _The Immortal Henrietta Lacks _, but honestly it's not that bad, the topic is pretty timely. Which I'm impressed by, not going to lie, I kind of thought the school administration was mostly a bunch of d—"

_"Master Jason," _Alfred says sharply from up front.

"—_underheads_," Jason finishes, sending an innocent expression in the direction of the rear-view mirror. "Alfie. What did you think I was going to say? I'm hurt."

Tim can't help but grin. _How is this my life,_ he thinks, and he's in the car with Robin, and he's got more pictures to still import from his camera of this very boy fighting a giant crocodile man monster last night, and their school got frozen by a warlock today, and Gotham is just so weird sometimes Tim doesn't even know what to do with himself.

Honestly, though, he wouldn't have it any other way. And tonight, he goes back out. Justice never seems to sleep, so Tim often doesn't either.

_Worth it,_ he thinks, and turns to add his two cents to Jason's monologue about school-mandated literature studies.


	2. you keep dancing around what you want

The cafeteria is crowded, the mystery meat is questionable, and Tim is getting a sneaking suspicion that Jason Todd has picked him as his new pet project for the month.

It's no secret at their school that Jason is...passionate. About a lot of things. He tends to fixate on something with an intensity to rival Batman's (ha), and generally gets whatever he's set his sights on accomplished, often in a hurry.

Tim just wishes he understood what Jason wanted to accomplish with _him _.

"Yes, Mom, I know," Tim is saying into his headphones. He stirs the mushy green beans around the tray lazily, twirling his fork. "Yeah. Yeah. I'll make sure I'm there for the delivery. Yeah, promise. Tell Dad I say hi! I miss you guys. Mm hm. Hey, I wanted to tell you, we had this project last week for art where we were supposed to represent something about the city that we like that other people might not notice normally, and—okay, that's alright. I'll tell you later. Yeah. Uh huh. Love you, be safe, bye!"

Jason's tray clatters down on the spot across from Tim with a thunk.

"That your parents?" Jason asks, dropping onto the creaky bench. He's already shoving tater tots in his mouth like they're going out of style.

"My mom," says Tim. He unplugs his earbuds and shoves them in the side pocket of his backpack, then picks up his fork.

"They coming back soon?" Asks Jason. His tone is a little too cheerful, and Tim narrows his eyes slightly.

"Not yet," he replies, carefully, watching Jason's face. "They're on the dig for another two weeks. Then they'll be back."

"Mm." Whatever Jason was digging for, it doesn't seem like he found it. "I don't get how they just leave you alone for so long," Jason says after a moment.

"I do fine," Tim says sharply, and he already regrets the tone—both because it's giving away a weak spot of his, and he doesn't want to be rude to one of the few people at this school who seems willing to talk to him for more than study help. "I've got everything I need, and it's not like they cut off contact. I'm not a baby."

"I'm just saying. It's not good for you to have to look out for yourself all the time."

"If anyone should know that it's doable, especially since I have supplies and more money than I could ever need, it should be you. You we're living by yourself on the streets!"

"Yeah, and it _sucked! _" Jason snaps. He takes a couple deep breaths, looking down at his lap, and Tim's eyes find a window and don't leave it. He can feel the blush on his ears, and feels guilty for poking at what could only be a sore spot, just because he was upset and swiping out with claws like a cornered animal.

They both go back to picking at their food. Tim pokes at the meat again with his knife, and wonders if maybe the school district cooks have a villain in their ranks who's secretly trying to poison the kids of Gotham before they can reach adulthood and change the way the city is currently run.

"Look," Jason says, after a minute, quietly enough that no one can overhear. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't push like that. It's a sore topic for me, and I'm self aware enough to know that I'm not far enough away from that whole clusterfuck to be any kind of detached or objective. I don't really know your situation, and maybe we can just...agree to disagree about it for now?"

Tim sighs. "Yeah. Sure."

"Cool," says Jason. "Hey, you want to come over to the manor after school? Alfred makes fresh cookies on Fridays because Dick usually comes home on weekends, and god knows he spends half his time here raiding our fridge like he never eats during the week. There's always, like, a bajillion, and we have plenty to share, and also I want someone to play Mario Kart with me before I start trying to flip every NPC off the tracks during races out of sheer boredom."

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it again. He's...confused. Extremely confused. Jason has only been hanging out with him at school for a couple days. And sure, he and Alfred keep offering Tim rides, which is nice? But Tim hates accepting help. That's admitting weakness, and Tim isn't in the business of offering anyone ammunition to accuse him of not being independent enough, or not able to handle his own needs. If his parents find out he's been begging rides off the neighbors, he'll get an earful.

"Don't you have friends?" asks Tim, wincing at the bluntness of it.

Jason's eyebrows lift up into his hairline.

"I don't know if you've noticed," he says mildly, "but I'm a literal street rat from Crime Alley, who is under the care of Literal Bruce Wayne, the mythical figure, and I am not good enough at hiding my love for school and literature classes to be either cool or popular in a building full of teenagers who are trying to prove independence and stick it to the old people."

Tim couldn't help snorting.

"Seriously," Jason says, leaning back. "We're neighbors. We're close in age. Bruce is lonely, even if he doesn't admit it, and so am I, because it's not like anyone in the 'neighborhood' goes around making social visits like it's the 1800s anymore. And you can't tell me that you don't sometimes want a break from being alone in that stupidly large house, right?"

"Your house is stupidly large too," Tim points out.

"Yeah, but it's stupidly large with two more whole people in it, which is at least marginally less stupid," says Jason. He frowns. "Well. Maybe two and a bit people. Dick is home enough weekends that I guess he should count as part of a person."

"Fine," Tim says. "I will come to your stupidly large house and eat the stupidly large amount of cookies your butler bakes, and we're going to get our homework done for the weekend _before _we play anything."

Jason grins. "Bruce is going to love you. Work before play and all that."

Tim's hand freezes on its way to his mouth. "...Bruce? He's gonna be there?"

"Well, yeah, after work. It _is _his house. Why, are you gonna tell me that little Timmy Drake is afraid of the big bad Bruce Wayne?" Jason laughs.

"Don't call me Timmy," grumbles Tim. And not _Bruce Wayne, _exactly, he thinks, but he is wary of the big bad Batman, who for all intents and purposes seems to be way more perceptive than any human has a right to be. Tim has a whole side of his life he's trying to keep secret. Walking into the life of the exact person he's _most _trying to keep it a secret from is not sounding like the most appealing plan. But…

"I'm coming," he says, staring Jason firmly in the eye. "But after I drop my stuff off at home and water the plants."

"Awesome," says Jason, happily stuffing another tater tot in his mouth. "We'll swing by your place on the way home then."

"No," Tim jabs the table with his pointer finger. "Nope! I'm taking the bus and walking. It's fine. It's my routine. I like it."

"It's like, 30 degrees outside."

"My. Routine. It's not like I've been doing the exact same thing all winter so far, or anything. Of course not."

"But that's cold." Jason blinks at him.

"There are these things, you may have heard of them, called _coats _and _gloves _. They keep humans warm when the air is cold."

"Al_right_, smartass, _gorram_," Jason throws a mushy green bean at Tim's face. "Suffer, I guess. If you change your mind, there's a car seat with heating elements that has your name on it. Since your rich parents somehow don't bother hiring a chauffeur or anything for their kid."

"Noted, and that's because_ I'm fine walking,_" Tim says, and then he's getting up to scrape his barely eaten lunch into the trash and absolutely positive he won't be taking Jason up on that offer.

* * *

"I'm gonna murder whoever designed Rainbow Road, I really will, hand to god," Jason is growling as Bowser goes flying off the edge for the millionth time. Tim eyes him sideways, not sure how many seconds away from throwing his controller at the screen the older teen is.

"If both of us suck at it this badly," Tim ventures, cautiously, "why do you keep adding it to our playlist?"

"Because it's part of the classic experience and I'm a glutton for punishment," Jason says while mashing the 2 button as Bowser's kart gets dropped back on the track.

"Damnit," Tim mutters, when Toad flies right off a curve similar to the one that had just done Jason in. "I thought you said we'd have fun."

"I'm having a blast. Dunno why you're such a party pooper over there."

"Listen, while you were right that Alfred's cookies are to die for and I will from now on do most things short of murder and maiming if I can get some again, I fail to see how continually running ourselves at the exact same metaphorical brick wall headfirst is ever supposed to have a different outcome than frustration and a moderate to severe headache, dude."

"Unfortunately, that's how Jason likes to approach most obstacles he encounters in life," a warm, solid voice interjects. Tim freezes, his finger still hovering over B and Jason's impending downfall via red shell.

Jason instantly pauses the game, whipping around to peer over the couch back with a genuine grin lighting up his entire face. "Hiya B! How was work?"

Bruce Wayne steps into the room fully then. "Boring. But that's business. Be glad I'm not making you train to take over the company someday."

"I'd rather die," Jason says solemnly.

"Let's not joke about that." Bruce sounds vaguely pained.

"Sorry."

Bruce leans down to kiss the crown of Jason's head, while Jason mumbles half-hearted protests and smiles anyway, and he reaches out and ruffles Tim's hair (the way Tim has pictures of him doing to Dick, to Jason, when they're in masks out on patrol, when they've done something good, when Batman is proud), before he stops, and turns, and looks. Tim is frozen solid. Tim is an ice pop. Tim has now merged with the arctic ice shelf, he's never moving again, maybe if he stays still long enough he can turn invisible.

There's a pause for a moment, then:

"Alfred!" Bruce calls.

"Master Bruce," Alfred replies calmly once he makes it to the doorway.

"Alfred, is this a new child of mine?"

Tim unfreezes and twists around in time to see Bruce gesturing expansively at where Tim perches on the couch, and Jason wearing an enormous grin.

"Uh, no sir," Tim gets out.

"This is Timothy Drake, from next door," Alfred explains. He turns and walks back down the hallway, presumably toward the kitchen, Tim thinks. "And no, you have not adopted him. Master Timothy's parents are still very much alive. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce and Jason chorus together. Bruce turns to Tim, his gaze surprisingly piercing. Or unsurprising, Tim supposes, considering what Bruce moonlights as, literally. He's the world's greatest detective. There wouldn't be much his eyes were blind to.

"It's good to see you, Timothy." Bruce shakes his hand. "I assume Jason brought you over?"

"Yes sir," Tim says.

"No need for the sir," Bruce waves a hand dismissively. "This house doesn't stand on formalities."

"Okay, Mr. Wayne," he amends. Jason muffles a laugh.

Bruce smiles at Tim, small but genuine. Not his smile for the public. This one is real, and Bruce is staring right at Tim's eyes, and Tim feels like he's freezing in Superman's Fortress of Solitude and melting in a fire all at once and he doesn't have a clue why. "Just Bruce, Timothy."

"Bruce," Tim says, after a few seconds of trying to find his voice. "You can call me Tim. If you want. That's my name. I mean, so is Timothy, but. Um. I go by Tim now."

"He gets real annoyed when you try to call him Timmy," Jason says. "It's worth it sometimes just to watch him puff up like an angry baby duckling."

"Jason!" Tim exclaims.

"It's a pleasure to meet you for real, Tim," Bruce says, smile deepening slightly. "Parties aren't the best place to make true impressions. Although your parents always have such proper company manners."

"Yes s—Bruce," Tim replies. "They're very good at that."

"Hm." Bruce watches him for a moment.

"Dinner is ready, sirs," Alfred says from the doorway then. "And I would encourage you to serve yourselves before Master Dick gets here, because he called ahead to say he's 'absolutely ravenous' and hadn't gotten lunch today, and his appetite is always voracious on a good day."

"It oughtta be, with how much energy he burns all the time," says Jason.

"Jason," Bruce says sharply, warning in his tone. Tim's heart beats a little faster. He knows, but they don't know he knows, and he's not sure how to react, how he should play that comment.

As it turns out, he doesn't need to worry, because Jason has it handled.

"_What, _B?" Jason complains. "Dick's like a goddamn golden retriever. He bounces everywhwere. I'm tired just watching him."

"Language," sighs Alfred. "Although you're not altogether wrong."

Tim breathes a sigh of relief internally as he turns off his controller and sets it in the basket.

"Thanks for the gaming, Jason, and thank you for the amazing cookies, Mr. Pennyworth," he says. "I had a good time. I'll see you on Monday, right?" He looks at Jason during the last bit.

"Yeah, but where do you think you're going?" Jason frowns.

"Home."

"No, but—you can't, Dick is coming, you'll love him. You should stay for dinner. Alfred's cooking is the best."

"I'm sure Tim needs to get home to his parents for their own dinner," says Bruce.

"Uh—"

"They're in Egypt," Jason says. "Tim's by himself over there."

"Really," Bruce says, and it's flat. Not a question. Tim absently notes that he's started sweating, and then absently notes that it's stupid to be stressed about this situation when it's perfectly fine and no different than any other normal Friday from the past few years.

"On Fridays our housekeeper makes a large dinner and we eat together," he lies. "I have to go back before Mrs. Mac gets worried and the food gets cold."

"Mm," Bruce says, and Tim feels like Batman's gaze is seeing right through his entire soul. _He doesn't know you know, he doesn't know you know, it's fine, he repeats in his head. _

"Okay," says Jason, sounding doubtful. "But you can stay if you want. Whenever you want. Or you can come back after?"

"Sorry, I got a lot of homework," Tim says quickly, edging out the doorway into the hall. "But it was fun today! Thanks. I'll see you around."

He's halfway down the hallway, too far away to hear as Jason looks at bruce and says, "But he doesn't have any homework, B. He's the one who insisted we do it before even starting the game."

Batman's sharp eyes squint down the hallway, wondering about the neighbor boy who neither Bruce nor the Batman have given much thought to over the years. Maybe it's time he did.

* * *

Tim sits on his kitchen island, waiting for the soup to heat up in the microwave. He did have a good time with Jason, he thinks. But now it's dark, and in a few hours he's got to be in the city if he wants to get any shots of the Bats now that Nightwing is back to join in for the weekend. If he's lucky, he might catch Dick and Jason playing around during downtime on patrol, and having a contest with the grapple or batarangs or flips (which Dick inevitably wins).

While waiting on his meal to cool, he starts suiting up in his night outfit all the different layers and pieces, and stashing nonperishables in his backpack for the kids on 13th street in the old warehouse. Throws in a few twenties for the homeless veterans that let him share their fire often.

It's been a pretty good day. Tim feels bad about rushing out on Jason like that, but the less time Tim spent around Batman the better. He couldn't risk it. He'd make it up to Jason later. Especially since he really did want to try some of Alfred's real cooking; the whole hallway had smelled like heaven while they played on the Wii.

For now, he's got a job, and he's doing it well, because someone has to make sure the world knows how much good Batman and his crew are doing for everyone else. No one is going to paint Bruce Wayne and his kids and friends as villains on Tim's watch.

* * *

Tim hitches his bag up as high as he can, scrambling out the window to avoid the cameras, and just happens to glance down at the front porch step, not expecting anything to be there. His parents aren't getting any packages for another few days. But something shiny catches his eye, and he sneaks around through the bushes, careful to keep out of sight.

On the porch in front of the door, there's a foil-covered plate, and a tupperware container of cookies. A post-it note on the top has just a smiley face and a hastily scribbled cursive J.

Something in Tim's chest feels too tight and unbearably hot at the same time. He stares for a good minute or so. Then he turns away and sets off through the night to the nearest bus stop. He'll get them later on, when he's back. And maybe he'll email Jason an apology tonight, instead of waiting.

As he sits on the near-empty bus, riding into the city on streets that get grungier as they go, Tim can't help but feel a little bit loved, and if his photos that night are a little brighter, a little more cheerful than usual, more happy moments scattered in, no one in the blog comments seem to notice. But Tim knows. And he's still thinking about it in the early hours of the morning, as he drifts off into a surprisingly easy sleep.


End file.
